


The River Thames on a Sunday

by lq_traintracks (lumosed_quill)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Domesticity, Established Relationship, Fingerfucking, M/M, POV Draco Malfoy, POV First Person, Rimming, clothed/naked sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-20 22:55:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10672491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumosed_quill/pseuds/lq_traintracks
Summary: A slice of their life in London. Harry jogs. Draco tinkers about. There's rimming. And tea.





	The River Thames on a Sunday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Llaeyro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llaeyro/gifts).



> Written for Daily Deviant's 11th birthday party.

On Sundays, Harry always goes for an early morning run along the Thames. We live in Greenwich, and he tends to run east, sometimes as far as the flood barrier and almost to where the river empties into the sea. I worry about the industrial areas and often tell him I wish he'd run in the bloody park, but he says he loves the way the river rises and falls with the tides. He's very stubborn. And he's Harry Potter. He can take care of himself.

I do rather like that he comes home smelling of salt and wind, the harshness of his breath filling our flat after hours of only the sounds of my tinkering, a rattle of the china here, a soft, "Oh shit," when my cauldron threatens to bubble over.

Harry invades all that with his bluster, his easy, "Hey," and the breathless report of how the river looks that day, how the sun broke through the fog on his return and warmed his back.

"Mm-hm." I sidle up, arms wrapped around his waist.

"Draco," he warns.

My face insinuates against his neck where the brine of the sea has licked him, scented him like a spray of cologne.

"I need to shower," he says.

"No, you don't." Always my answer.

I practically wrestle him into the bedroom where it's dark still, curtains undrawn. I have him stripped nude in moments, evading his hands at my own waistcoat and trousers, not letting him dislodge one iota of me. At least not yet.

"Lie down."

"In the shower," he tries.

"After," I say.

He's half-hard, his cock blushed in the low light, and it makes me ache to look at him. It always does.

He sighs, granting my wish and laying himself out for me. I run my hands up the backs of his legs, feeling him melt instantly for my touch. His arse unclenches, the muscles in his legs warming to my palms. I lean down and nip a bite to his arsecheek.

"Ow," he complains. "Twat."

I chuckle, lips hovering over his skin. "Sorry."

"No you're— Oh _fuck_."

I've opened the cheeks of his arse and I lap my tongue slowly over the furled rim of his arsehole.

"Good?" I ask after I've made a few soft, unhurried passes. But I know his answer. He's already undulating against the sheets.

Harry groans into the bed, and I smile. I love relaxing him after a run – when he's so wound tight, his muscles, his mind, his magic racing through his blood from heart, to lungs, to legs, and back in a continuous loop of energy.

I lick harder, with purpose, until he relaxes enough that I can push inside him a little. My eyes flutter closed, a heavy moan of satisfaction coming from deep in my chest. Harry always tastes like the ocean air, like sun on rocks.

He's begun to chant nonsense. He likes getting his arse tongue-fucked. He likes it probably as much as I like doing it to him. I squeeze the globes of his rutting arse in my hands and lap at him.

"I'm going to… I'm going to…" he whines. I do _love_ to make Harry Potter whine. Not in that stupid schoolboy way like when I used to wish he'd crumble under the weight of his own fame and dissolve into very un-Harry-like whimpering tears. No, I love this in a reverent way. I love taking him apart with my mouth, Harry's pleasure being the most efficient way to ignite my own.

I lift my now-swollen lips and insert a finger into him. He cries out. I whisper a lube charm, and then I'm finger-fucking him to completion, murmuring to him how beautiful he is, how aroused I am by how hard he comes, how hard my prick is to be inside of him.

Harry comes all over the bed, groaning. I withdraw my finger from the clench of his warm body… lean down and leave a kiss at his cleft, trail my mouth over to a bumcheek and bite a new kiss there, too.

"Fuck you," Harry laughs, swatting at my head with a tired hand and missing.

"Still want that shower?" I ask.

He snorts. "It's gone from a want to a need, I think."

I chuckle and help him roll over and stand. He smirks, glancing down and then palming my hard cock through my trousers. "Merlin, Draco, you have the self-control of a Hufflepuff."

I scoff. "Fucked a lot of Hufflepuffs, have you?"

He rolls his eyes, tugging on my belt. It jangles open. But before he can strip me entirely, I curl my hand into his wind-and-sex-tousled hair and pull him into a kiss.

He hums. I love how Harry hums when I kiss him. I turn my head and he parts his lips further. It's the sort of kiss that slows time. I pull him to me, his hot naked body filling my arms, his strong hands stroking along my back. I have the stray thought that I love him. It's a thought that tends to recur like the tides. It never stops coming in, over and over, sometimes coaxingly, sometimes with the sudden ferocity of a storm, even though I rarely find the courage to voice it.

Harry breaks the kiss and gives my arse a slap. "Meet me in there," he says, leaving me to undress. I watch his arse shift in that lovely way it has when he walks from a room. I watch him go, a guilty pleasure, as I slowly pull my belt from its loops.

~

It's Sunday again, and I'm hung over from having our friends here for a dinner party the night before. I wince at the whistle of the tea kettle, my second pot. Harry, the fucker, is tying his trainers, getting ready to run. I can think of no better torture for my pounding head, but Harry? Oh no, he's _fine_. 

"Back soon," he calls, and I turn to give him a tired smile.

The door closes definitively, and the flat goes quiet again. It's not an unpleasant quiet. It's the subtle shift in the room as his pulsing magic fades away and the soft lapping thrum of mine replaces it.

I take my tea and walk to the window, seeing that Harry is still on the pavement, doing a little stretch. He looks ridiculous in that Muggle sweatshirt. I find that I'm smiling down on him like a ponce, and it's then that he turns his face up and sees me. He smiles back, teeth and all, and my whole body, for just that moment, rejoices. 

He gives a jaunty wave and then takes off at a jog down the street, on his way to the water. I watch his feet slap the ground, the train-steam of his breath, until he's around a corner and out of sight. I inhale the jasmine fragrance of my tea slowly as the sun breaks through the clouds.


End file.
